


Hindsight is -4.25

by marieincolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Glasses, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“C'mon, man. I run two stop signs and spend half an hour in the bus lane, and you want me to walk around looking like some kind of... Of... Banker?”</p><p>“Yeah... Banker. Right. That's the bigger issue here. The other day you walked into a ladies bathroom. Was that on purpose?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hindsight is -4.25

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. Am merely having fun. 
> 
> This isn't betaed. Hope you enjoy anyway. :)

It's the last nail in the coffin, as far as Sam is concerned. 

As far as Dean is, it doesn't even nail two sticks of wood together. 

The bullet penetrates his right shoulder easily, bleeding freely and heavily until Sam can tear a piece of his t-shirt loose to squeeze tight against it, ignoring the grunt of pain Dean can't manage to hold back. The damp basement room they're in reeks of sulfur and smoke, sweat and pain and what Sam has come to think of as the smell of evil.  
Dean shifts minutely, trying to keep balanced on the uneven stool he's sitting on. His hands dangle limply down between his legs. He's bending forwards, and Sam takes the opportunity to tie the piece of cloth with a knot on it tightly to his back, where the larger exit wound dribbles blood down pale skin, soaking into even paler cotton. 

It's really not easy to keep his mouth shut on the way out of the basement, following Dean closely behind up the narrow, rickety stairs in case he loses balance or trips, only vaguely aware of the ache starting up in his left hip.  
Right where he hit the hot water tank in the corner.  
Anger flares in him, and he feels his lips tighten into a narrow strip, bloodless and cold. 

Dean miscalculates. Bumps off the doorframe on his way out the door, grunts in pain again. A low, deep sound that reverberates in Sam's chest. 

“C'mon, man. Let's get that wound cleaned out, 'kay?” he says, to keep his lips busy while he tries to reign in what he really wants to say. 

He jingles the keys to the Impala in his pocket impatiently.  
Turns her out of the parking lot with a lot more irritation than strictly necessary.

-

 

“Dude. I can't go out like this?”

It's voiced like it's a question. Sam quirks his lips in what would be a full on grin if it wasn't for the fact that for the first time in years, his brother can see across the room.  
Will know that Sam is amused by the fact that Dean has been standing in front of the mirror over the little vanity fastened to the wall by the door to their room, turning his head this way and that, his eyes following his movements and righting the square, black frames with his fingers every few seconds. 

“Yeah, well, I'm not getting in the car with you again if you don't go out like that.”

Yeah, okay, mission failed. Amusement sings through every single syllable of what he's saying, and his bitchface must look more like a mixture of constipation and the kind of face you put on when you want to laugh so hard your face is literally in cramps, but for some reason you can't. At all. Like. Ever. 

Dean's fingers still where they're pinching the left side of the frames, righting them across his nose where they were just fine to begin with. They drop down to his side as he turns to look over at Sam, looking almost mischievous before he figures out a comeback. 

“C'mon, man. I run two stop signs and spend half an hour in the bus lane, and you want me to walk around looking like some kind of... Of... Banker?”

Sam eyes the worn leather jacket with an eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah... Banker. Right. That's the bigger issue here. The other day you walked into a ladies bathroom. Was that on purpose?”

“I'm not even going to dignify that question with an answer, Sammy, because you obviously didn't see the girl walking in ahead of me.”  
He leers across the room, raising one eyebrow over the rim of the glasses twice.

Sam snorts. He did. Judging by the blotchy redness hitting Dean's cheeks, he did, too.  
He's pretty sure she was wearing mom-jeans. Not Dean's normal type, but hey. Who is he to judge?

“Glasses, Dean, or I'm showing every single girl you ever meet the photo of you sucking your thumb.”

“I was twelve, you little shit.”

“Yeah.” Sam mutters to himself, noting with satisfaction that Dean has settled on the bed furthest from the television, is flicking the subtitles on and off with a face that suggests the whole world has just opened up to him. “My point exactly.”

-

He sits in the chair by the television, in the corner of their room. It's a pukey shade of mauve, and he wouldn't give a shit, only it matches the colour on Dean's face perfectly. Like.  
Perfectly. 

His hip aches, throbs in tune with his heart right where he knows a bruise is blossoming. Dean flops back on his bed, knees bent and feet with boots still resting on the floor. Sam has time to tighten his face in expectation of his reaction, and...

“Holy mother fuck of Christ on a sandwich!” Dean growls, his voice tight and hoarse, twisting to his side with one leg curled up to his stomach to ease the weight off his still bleeding shoulder.  
“You're a moron” Sam says, steeling himself to get out of the chair to get iodine and the sewing kit. He hopes to shit there are more pads and tape left after the last job. Dean's green shirt is soaked with blood, his face paler than the chair as he clenches his eyes shut. 

“Sit up” Sam says, his hip screaming loudly as he folds himself down on the mattress next to Dean.  
“We're going to have to go clothes shopping, you know.”

Dean groans, and Sam wonders for a moment if he's hit a sore spot. Pauses with an orange cotton ball in his hand. Grins.  
“I know, I know, but you keep getting shot and stabbed in everything we fucking own, man.”  
“Oh, your poor – Mmmmmmfuck – t-shirts, Samantha. Not to mention your bra.”  
“You admitting that you've got breasts? We should get you measured. Get those knockers some support.”  
“Ha. Funny.”  
Dean twists, squints up at him. “Funny, Sam. You're a regular comedian, aren't you? Let me just remind you, in case you forgot; I just got shot. Taking that into consideration, I'm fucking awesome, 'kay?”  
Sam's shoulders tighten, and his fingers twitch slightly rougher than necessary against the ragged edges of Dean's wound.

“Uh. Yeah. Speaking of. What the fuck, Dean?”

“What?”

“What. The. Fuck?”

He can feel the muscles in Dean's back twitching under his hands.  
“What do you mean?”

Sam sighs. 

“You got shot. You shouldn't have gotten shot. I'm usually the only one to get you, if anyone, and we both know that's because I'm a better shot than you are.”  
Dean grunts, which is as close to an admission as Sam's ever gotten, however off-topic it may be.  
“Yeah. Well. Off-day.”  
“You drove in the bus lane for half an hour. You got a friggin' ticket, Dean. For driving in the bus lane.”  
“It was badly marked.”

Sam sighs, threading the needle and tying a quick knot. Single stitches. No chance of ripping one, ripping all. Dean holds his breath as the crooked needle penetrates his skin. Sam reminds himself to buy a set of needles sometime soon; this one hasn't been the same since Dean fixed his leather jacket last month. 

God, their fucking lives. 

“You're getting checked out.”

“Mf.”

Dean leans forwards, Sam holds the needle back until he stills. Sticks it through his skin again, works the worn needle through the reddening, swollen edges of the wound as gently as he can.

“Good.”

-

Dean follows the squat, portly man with a set of really purple glasses into a tiny little room behind the counter. Sam can only just see the massive white... Thing. That thing that. Does something to your eyes. Measure? Whatever. Dean hesitates in front of the blue vinyl chair attached to it, looking uncertain and uncomfortable, and then the door closes. 

Sam sits on a squeaky chair. Reads old magazines. Quizzes himself on what his “style” is (Hipster; 15 points), and uses Dean as his other half in a relationship test ( “Better move on; 7 points. Comfortable and lived in; 5 points.”). Has time to pull loose five threads from the bottom of his bootcut jeans, soaked in mud, thumb through the pile of ancient receipts in his pocket (19 from gas stations, 1 from target) and put his hands in his pocket five times only to take them out again immediately before his phone vibrates. 

“Get out. Call you later. -D”. 

Dean signs all his texts, like Sam might get confused if he doesn't. Which brother is this, again?

“Gone.” He writes back, hides behind a shelf. Knees bent, peeking around the sides of a mirror. Fumbles with three pairs of red old-lady glasses before the door opens and the portly man exits, walking over to a shelf of square frames.  
Dean follows, looking...

Sam has to put his fist close to his mouth in case he laughs out loud. 

“Harry Freaking Potter!” he squeals, unable to stop himself, and the portly man spins on his heals, like he thinks Sam is talking to him. Dean scowls at him, his cheeks flushing bright red again.  
“Told you to get out, man.”  
“Did. Came back” Sam says, which is a lie, but yeah. Worth it.  
“What the hell are you wearing?”

The portly man grins, looking pleased with himself. 

“Well, we want him to see his new frames, don't we?”

And that's when Sam realises that his brother is wearing a pair of lenses fastened in a pair of testing frames, complete with little screws and things to adjust the width and whatnot. 

That, and his brother is apparently blind. 

Dean's cheeks stay stubbornly red throughout the afternoon.  
Sam (Michael Worthington Jr., 33, Wisconsin, MasterCard) pays the bill. 

-

There's a girl tied to the chair in front of the hot water tank in the corner. She's thin, young. A teenager, most likely, though judging by the state of her teeth as she growls at Dean, spits on his shirt, maybe not. 

She hisses at him as he lets a steady drip of holy water fall on her face. Steam rises in little rivulets, and she laughs. Maniacal, head thrown back. Her hands work on the ropes fastening her hands together, then to the back of the chair. 

Dean grins right back. Recites the exorcism while the water drips steadily, steam working away on the chalk outline of a demon trap drawn on the ceiling.  
Dark wood.  
Mostly rotten. 

The girl doesn't come back to herself until the black smoke is hovering somewhere over Kenya, and Sam has loosened the ties from her hands and legs. She bounces upright, kicking the heavy chair back in the process, and Sam falls backwards. Surprised, taken unaware. He hits the water heater with a hollow thump, but barely notices the sting through the adrenaline saturating his body. He gets tangled in the chair and ties he's still holding in his hands, cuts himself on the knife he loosened them with. 

A gun fires loudly, and he hears Dean howl in pain. His knees hit the basement floor just as Sam flings himself forwards, fastening the girl's arms to her waist with his own arms, prying the gun away from her. 

“Get the fuck out” he whispers, his voice low and throaty, panting slightly and frighteningly aware that he's sweaty and tall and smelly, and this girl has just woken up tied to a chair in a basement.  
And that she doesn't know how she got there. 

“No one wants to hurt you, now just get the fuck out.”

She's up the stairs, tight jeans swishing between her thighs as she tries to run, stumbling only a few times.  
She doesn't look back. 

Sam starts tearing away at his dingy t-shirt, knife held tight between his teeth. Dean squeezes a hand to the entering wound on his shoulder.

-

The Impala rumbles down a stretch of highway so forgotten and destitute Dean almost wants to pay for some new asphalt out of his own pocket. His head is leaning against the window, stretched back in the way that makes his mouth fall open when he falls asleep. 

Once, when he was sixteen, he woke up with his mouth full of cigarette butts having slept that way.  
Because dad got bored, and had just quit smoking (for the third time) but not actually emptied that tempting, tempting ashtray.  
They had to get new floor mats. 

The sides of his glasses dig into his face the way he's leaning to the side, and while it hurts and bugs him when the car bounces over an uneven part of the road, he doesn't really care. That's sort of what glasses do when you lean on the arm. They pinch behind the ear when you wear a hat, and if you wear the hat wrong you get little red marks on your nose where the pads rest. Red little bruises that fade after only minutes of not wearing them. 

Dean takes them off to shower and sleep.  
And he doesn't get dizzy and miscalculate distances anymore. Doesn't get headaches when he reads.

The glasses dig into the side of his face, and the black plastic is worn and matted from use on the inside where they rub against the sides of his head, against the soft skin around his ears.

Next to him, Sam fondles the steering wheel, his lips quirking into a smile at the sight of his brother with glasses crooked on his face, distorting his eyes into different sizes, mouth slowly opening into an unflattering gape.

Then he digs in his pocket for his camera phone.


End file.
